Letters to Sigrid
by lena1987
Summary: Sigrid is resigned to admiring Prince Fili of Erebor from afar, until a new friend arrives in Dale that turns her world, and Bard's, upside down. Will the Princess of Dale finally take charge of her future and heart? Asides from 'Kings and Sweetmeats', a BardxOC story.
1. Chapter 1

_This is essentially 'Kings and Sweetmeats', but told through the eyes of Sigrid, and therefore is more Fili centered. Despite that, it is a different story, with many different scenes. You can read this without having read Anne's and Bard's story but the two complement each other so it'd be worth your while to have a poke around Kings and Sweetmeats if you haven't read it. Enjoy!_

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 **TA 2942**

The sun shining on Dale in the summer is nigh on unbearable. It is hot and sticky. It is oppressive. It smothers the streets with its sweltering heat, giving no reprieve. The only consolation is that we know that it will benefit us in the years to come; it will help to give us bountiful harvests, and it will counter the sadness that this city is being built on.

The sun is hot on my back as I work; I feel its heat seeping through my clothes until my neck is damp with sweat and my forehead is shining. I am a mess; I want nothing more than to run to the lake and throw myself in, dowdy dress and all. I rise from where I have been hunkered down in old, rotten flower beds and try to wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, though I soon groan when I catch sight of my hand when it falls. Both sides are covered in dirt. Of course they are.

I allow myself a minute to sag against the hard, stone wall behind me, and survey the work that is still only half completed. This is to be a home for a new widow with four young mouths to feed. Five, to be exact, though the fifth is still on the breast and young enough that he hasn't missed not having a few spoonfuls of gruel*. I saw the babe for the first time only yesterday - he has a head of black hair and bright green eyes that he inherited from the man who died in the fighting not far from where I am now, a few short months ago.

Da has tasked himself with the feeding of the family, as he has so many others, and the dwarves are coaxing a house for them from unforgiving stone. And what am I doing? I am gardening. No - I am not gardening; I am creating. My hands are pulling out the old, thorny past and leaving a blank space of fresh earth, ready for children's hands and kitchen herbs. I am creating a reminder of peace, for a woman who has lost too much.

My hands are red and sore, though that does not stop me from crouching back down and grabbing a small saw to begin hacking off the dead branches and roots of what I pretend used to be a rosebush, though the unfriendly trunk is dead and black and I fancy that not even one of the Elves could tell me what it was. I dig the blade into the dead limbs and pull with all of my might until it gives me one small sliver of a crack on the branch. My failure is enough to send me trying again, though I pull too hard and end up falling painfully onto my backside with a thud and the saw bounces off the stone with a clang.

I sit on the hard stone for long enough to begin feeling sorry for myself.

And then I hear it.

"'Ello?" A low voice calls, the sound muffled. Whoever it is must be inside.

I stay silent, glad that the garden bed is in a tiny courtyard behind the house, surrounded by tall walls. The only way in is by a door in the kitchen, and I am sure that no one will even think-

"Sigrid?"

"Fili?"

I stare at the fair-haired dwarf, and the shock must be evident in my face because he frowns and looks at me like I am a timid mouse that might scamper off at any minute. Well, appearing in thin white shirt-sleeves that are pushed up to the elbow, exposing tanned, hard skin that is damp with the fruits of hard work will do that to a girl. Wouldn't it? Perhaps it would just do it to me.

"What are you doing?" he asks and has the good grace to cross the offending arms at his chest, drawing my gaze to the bare skin at the nape of his neck that is glistening with sweat.

"Nothing," I reply, though my voice catches, making me sound guilty, as if he has caught me doing something that I shouldn't. He hasn't, of course, for thankfully my face is so red from the sun that not even dwarven eyes can see the blush that I feel burning my insides. He frowns again.

"The house is finished," he comments. I wonder if he is expecting me to agree.

"No it's not," I counter.

Fili is silent, watching me with an amused smile. If I pretend well enough, I think that there might even be a tenderness to the way his eyes take in the dirt on my hands and cheek.

He turns and looks at the garden, giving me a chance to study him. The months have barely changed him, though his beard is now at least the length of a balled fist under his chin. He's braided it, to match his moustache. He has tied his long hair back, though I think I can see a new braid or two at the sides of his head. He looks more… Regal? Or handsome, I add silently and bite my lip.

"No, perhaps it isn't," he agrees finally.

If I were a talkative person, I would rise to his bait and object to the 'perhaps'. 'Perhaps' it isn't finished? Of course it isn't finished. If I were a talkative person, I would say: 'You, sir, climbed out of my toilet and now you are presuming that a house is finished when there's nowhere for a mother's herbs that heal cuts, or soothe sore throats.'

Instead, I grumble inaudibly under my breath. Fili might be the most attractive man (or dwarf - what do I call him?) I have seen, but I am no wide-eyed milk maid. I am calm and collected, my words well thought out and ordered.

"…Sigrid?"

"Oh. What?" I turn to him, realizing that he has spoken and I have completely missed it, having been engrossed in thinking about how I am _not_ thinking about him.

He ducks his head and grins, an impish, elfin grin. I like this grin, I decide.

"I said: shall I help you?"

At once I cross my arms and try to assemble a retort, something along the lines of 'I am perfectly capable of gardening', but suddenly he has crouched down beside me and all I can see are the golden hairs on his firm arms.

"If you want," I manage.

"I do," he looks at me sideways.

He does. Well, then. What do I say now?

"Hack these off." I hand him the saw and gesture at the trunk and its dead limbs. Good start, Sigrid.

"Hack it off?" he echoes and I shrug, aiming to project a no-nonsense air, but soon I have betrayed myself and my mouth is hanging wide open. Why? Because he tosses the saw aside and grabs the trunk with his bare hands and rips it right out of the earth with only the lowest of grunts rumbling from his chest.

"Where do you want it?" he asks, holding the trunk in one arm over his shoulder. The dangling roots shower us with dirt, and I hold my arms over my head. "Sorry," he adds with another grin.

I can't remember what he asked me; my thoughts have rapidly turned from wonder at his strength, to picturing me held in his arms like that. Surely I wouldn't weigh much more than the tree? I squint at the trunks, mentally comparing myself and the tree.

"Sigrid?"

Oh. Right.

"Over there," I wave a hand vaguely at one of the walls, hoping that there's somewhere that the remains of a dead tree can be suitably deposited.

Fili drops the charred, twisted thing and jumps up to grip onto the top of the wall. He pulls himself up until his palms are flat on the top, supporting his body, then he surveys whatever is behind the wall and hums. By this time, I have given up controlling my thoughts and am instead struggling to reign in a whistle of appreciation, like the boys in Laketown sometimes do when a top-heavy fishwife strolls by. Da always cuffs them on the back of their heads when he hears them, but even he can't quite stop his eyes from widening at such a sight, the way mine are right now.

"It'll do," he calls and I choke out a sound that is meant to be a 'yes' but instead sounds like I have been imagining him climbing up to my window in exactly the same way he's doing now.

He drops down to the ground and effortlessly picks up the tree again, then throws it over the wall. The movement covers the courtyard in dirt, though he doesn't hesitate and heads back through the door in the kitchen, coming back out with a stiff broom. Soon the courtyard is spotless and he has only been here for five minutes. I feel slightly overwhelmed.

"Ho," Fili huffs and sinks onto the ground beside me, stretching his legs out and leaning his back against the wall. I am relieved to see beads of sweat on his forehead, evidence that he is not a sledgehammer personified after all.

I mull over my options: I can keep on gardening, where I know that my backside will be in full view of his face, in this drab brown skirt that does me no favours. Or I can sit beside him. Or leave. I decide to sit beside him and, after a seconds thought, stretch out my legs, too. Sitting like this, we are the same height, though my feet touch the stone borders of the small garden and his do not.

"Hard work you're doing, lass," he comments blandly.

I turn to him with a frown but he is smiling again. I don't miss how his eyes take in my blouse that is slightly too small across the chest. I haven't yet had time to make up a new one, even though Da is repeatedly telling me to let myself rest for a change. Da doesn't quite understand that I'm not about to go and get measured by a seamstress who, no doubt, I've known since I had buds instead of breasts.

"Is it?" I challenge him boldly. Or it feels boldly, to me.

"It is for a princess," he counters, assessing how the word makes me turn away and stare at the opposite wall. It is a tiny courtyard, and our two bodies, plus the garden, almost fill it entirely.

"Yes, well," I say and shrug. I'm not Da's girl for nothing, and neither of us would be able to construct a flowery response to such a comment.

"Does the princess not wish to rest her tired hands?" Fili continues and I scowl at the wall.

"Why?" I grumble, still avoiding his gaze, even though I feel it like he's waving a white hot branding iron in front of me and not his ice blue eyes.

"You're a strong girl," he states. For some reason, I quite like the sound of the word 'girl' coming out of his mouth even though it makes me grind my teeth together if Da ever uses it. But Da says it when he wants to be stern, or worse, charming in the way only a father can be.

Fili says 'girl' like it could be replaced by 'woman', and I quite like that.

"But even a strong lass needs a rest, now, doesn't she?" he adds and all of a sudden, he picks up my hand from where it has been lying idly at my side and holds it between his two, larger ones.

This makes me whip my head around, until I am staring at our hands. His are hot and damp with sweat, something that I think I would find fairly revolting in another man, but because they're Fili's hands, I feel a strange twist in an unknown part of my body. I can't locate exactly what part it is – somewhere between my stomach and my… Well. _There._

"Maybe," I whisper as he studies how my hand fits against his. Somehow, it's smaller.

"Look at that," he breathes. I can't – I'm looking at his beard instead. I am struck by the thought of how it might feel if it grazed my cheek. Soft, maybe, or hard like the coarse, rough wool that I used to use to make our winter vests. We will have better wool now, Da says.

"Your hands are tiny," he says next. "Like I thought."

I can barely breathe. Like he thought? Was he thinking of how our hands would fit together? Should I ask him? But he beats me to it.

"Your skin is soft," he says, his low voice so soft that I have to lean closer to him to hear it, until our shoulders are almost touching. I mean to move in the most innocent way that I can, all I want is to hear him better, but his head jerks up and then he is looking right at me, his eyes dark. I can smell his body – smell the effect the sun has had on him, as it has on me. It doesn't make me recoil. Somehow it makes me think that we might smell like this if we've been entangled with each other, our bodies slick and bare.

When did I even begin to have such thoughts?

He makes a strangled sound in his throat, and I see his chest moving faster. For a moment, he leans even closer and I think that he might kiss me. I feel such a mix of fear and desire that it must be painted on my face, and he moves back slightly, though he does not relinquish his hold on my hand.

I watch, transfixed, as he raises my hand and reaches over it to extend my fingers and flip it over. The next thing I know, his lips are pressed against my palm in a soft kiss.

His breath is hot on my hand, almost as hot as the scorching sun. If I could barely breath before, now I have completely forgotten how to, for his mouth has moved until he brushes it over each of my fingertips.

When he has finished, he closes my hand, finger by finger, then covers it again, until my fist is trapped between his hands. I exhale, then forget to inhale.

"Breathe, Sigrid," Fili says gently.

Oh, but I can't, Fili. I cannot.

"Breathe," he repeats and my lungs obey the commanding edge to his tone, though my mind is still far, far away, remembering how his beard feels like the belly of a kitten that my mother kept once, though I come back to earth when I remember that it drowned in the lake.

"Right," I nod. "Right. I am breathing, Fili. Thank you." My voice comes out harsher than I mean it to, and he lets go of my hand.

At the same time we both hear voices in the neighbouring house. Fili cranes his head to the side, as if he might see who it is, but he soon stands and turns back to the kitchen door.

"I…" he trails off, and looks down at his feet. "It was nice to see you, Sigrid. More than nice."

I smile shyly, pleased with the relieved look that flashes across his face in the split second before he mirrors my smile.

"It was nice to see you too, Fili," I admit, congratulating my femininity for automatically making me blush again. I like how his eyes focus on my pink cheeks, and I more than like how his face stretches into a grin that might just be a tad triumphant.

"I'll see you soon," he says and opens the door, then turns back to me again. "It would be a pleasure, to see you again."

He says the last words quickly, before he darts through the door and it swings shut behind him.

I look at the door for a long time, until I have memorized the flowing carvings around the borders. Then I turn back to my garden, and stick my hands in the dirt, daring to imagine a future that blooms the way I hope the new seeds in my pocket will.

* * *

tbc.


	2. Chapter 2

**TA 2945**

Tap, tap, tap.

"My lady?"

"Oh. Hm? What?"

Torwald, the head cook, looks at me strangely as the tapping continues and I realise that it is the sound of my fingernails against the wood of the table. I have been thinking of Fili's hand that grazed my waist, then dragged along my back, the last time we passed each other when I was leaving Erebor after yet another meeting. I look at the tall, fat, grey haired man and smile.

"Yes, Torwald?"

"I said, we have a new addition to the staff."

"Right. Well, if you think it's needed, then that's your decision. But be mindful of the finances, would you?"

Torwald is a good cook, but he seems to think we need to live better than we do. He served the master in Laketown, which I assume is where he got such ideas into his head, but I've had to have stern words with him more than once. He seems to think that a town so close to the Lake should dine on meat every night, which is ridiculous. Thankfully my words over the last three years have gotten through his rather thick head, and we now only get meat brought in twice a week.

We do not need to be mindful of our finances, truth be told, but I much prefer to hoard than to dish out freely. I can thank my upbringing for that. It has served us well since I have taken over the books and ledgers; Da tried in the beginning, but we almost ran out of our stores of grain so it became my task to watch over the financial state of the city.

"Yes, of course," Torwald says, drawing my attention back to him. He's being too polite, which makes my mouth screw up as I examine his pink cheeks. I almost turn to Da, who is sitting on the chair beside me, papers spread out in front of him, but I turn back around to the cook when I see Da muttering to himself, his finger following the numbers down the page. Not even I will be able to bring him out the depth of concentration that he seems to need to look at grain records.

We are in the main hall and it is just after lunchtime. Da and I have a habit of sitting in the hall and doing our work together – the study works well, but we spent years sitting at a family table in our old home, and we haven't been able to break the practice yet.

"What is it, Torwald?" I ask him shrewdly.

Tolward looks at Da, who doesn't raise his head. I know it is not on purpose, but I raise my eyebrows at the old man pointedly: he'll have to deal with me.

"Well…" he stammers. "It's a woman of trade."

"Of trade?" I begin to shake my head. "We have you, plus your assistants. Why do we need someone who has a trade? They will cost more. Find someone else." Then I think for a moment. "What is she even meant to be doing?"

Torwald somehow finds the courage to look me in the eye and I can see that he is excited about this mysterious tradeswoman. "She's a confectioner!" he announces. I think he'd click his heels together if he wasn't a man of one and sixty, or fat enough that the entirety of my family could fit into one of his pant legs.

"A confectioner? What does that even _mean?_ " Tilda asks, having come up beside me, chewing on the end of a quill, obviously on a break from her lessons.

I hear the clearing of a throat, then a woman steps out from behind Torwald. At first I don't understand how she has managed to stand there for so long and not be noticed, but I lose my train of thought because she is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.

She has eyes as black as the lake at night, and hair that somehow manages to be even darker. Her skin is a colour that I have never seen in my life – I can't decide if it's gold, or brown, or both. She is small, I realise, which is how she fit easily behind Tolward's frame; her limbs are long and slim, her body curved in way that I haven't seen an older woman's be because there is no heaviness to it – she has never had children. But she can't be that old – for a minute, I forget myself and lean forward to see that her tanned, golden face is smooth, almost wrinkle free except for laugh lines. Her eyes are wide, lashes long, and topped by eyebrows that are thin and arched. I almost raise a finger to my own, which are thicker and not half as attractive. How can she make even her eyebrows attractive, I want to ask.

She turns her head to look right at me and I flinch at the directness of her gaze. Then she brushes a lock of wavy hair away from her forehead and the spell is broken, and I continue with my examination. She is wearing a dark brown dress, exceedingly plain but it does her no end of favours; even Talward is having trouble keeping his eyes away from the line of her waist. Her hair is braided, but she must have endless amounts of it because more wisps around her face each time she moves.

The only thing I can hear in the hall is Da whispering under his breath – not even the lack of sound that occurs as all of the male occupants in the hall stop in their tracks to gawk at this woman is enough to make him look up from the page.

The woman looks as if she has no idea what effect she has on any of us, for she shifts on her feet, which only draws more eyes to her as her hip juts to the side. I make a mental note to practice such a movement in front of the mirror later.

"Ah…" Torwald says in a strangled voice. "Princess Sigrid, let me introduce you to Anne of Dorwinion. The new confectioner."

The woman walks towards where I am sitting and sinks into a graceful curtsy. Wherever did she learn that? The last time a woman curtsied to me, she fell over on her backside. We don't do things like that in Dale.

"She came by way of Minas Tirith," Torwald says in an important voice. Well, that explains it then.

Anne is silent, and I begin to think she is mute until I understand that she is waiting for me to address her, first. Blimey, is she going to act like this all of the time? How is she going to do my eyebrows if she's going to act like she's got no tongue?

"Hello," I say plainly. Her eyes widen, perhaps she was expecting a 'how do you do' or 'good day to you'.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady Princess," she says. If a woman could purr, that is what her voice would sound like. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a maid reach over and shut the mouth of a server boy that has dropped open at the sound that comes out of her pink lips.

Three words is a record for me: my lady Princess. I am princess, or Sigrid, or my girl (Da) or my lady, if I must be. Sometimes, to my pleasure, I am even a lass.

"Yes, alright," I beam and wave a hand.

I see how she blinks at my friendliness, then she breaks out into a wide, honest smile. Her teeth look like pearls of white. Strangely, I have not felt even one tug of envy; I have decided instead that I like this woman. I cross my legs, wondering why I have come to such a conclusion, when she opens her mouth again.

"A confectioner, my ladies," she says to Tilda and I, "is a cook who specializes in the sweeter side of things. I have studied for many years…"

Has she? Many years? I look at her again. She doesn't look much older than me. I learn later that she is nine and twenty, her thirtieth naming day due at the end of autumn.

"…and I have held the position in both Dorwinion and Minas Tirith."

"Where?" I ask bluntly, almost giggling when she grins. She is obviously enjoying my frankness.

"The Lord of Dorwinion's court, then a year of extra training in Dol Amroth, then the Steward's court," Anne says seamlessly, then blinks. "Oh, and a year in the household of Prince Thengel of Rohan."

Such places and people do not actually mean anything at all to me, but if Torwald is going to be spending a tradeperson's wages on this woman, then I want to at least know a bit of her history.

I am still wondering why I think I will like her, but then her next words convince me that she and I are going to be very, very good friends. "I'll make you up a plate," she says firmly, without any invitation from me. I like someone who treats me as if I do not need to be coddled.

And she does make a plate.

At the evening meal, when we are dining together in our private quarters, a tray comes to us. It is covered in deep blue silk and sits in the middle of our table, until Da looks up from his fish and finally sees it.

"What's that?" he asks, puzzled at the addition to our table.

I turn my head to him, my eyes fit to bust. "Are you jesting, Da?"

"About what?" he raises an eyebrow, then scratches his beard. I wonder for a second if Fili scratches his beard, I've never seen him do it. Then I think, what would it feel like if _I_ scratched his beard? Then I shake my head to clear my thoughts.

"Da, you can't be that deaf!" Tilda cries and breaks off into giggles.

"He must be," I agree with another shake of my head. "We have a new addition to the staff. A confectioner."

"A what?" Da's lip curls, like it does when he's bewildered.

"We went through this after lunch. You were there," I remind him. He continues to look baffled, so I look instead to the tray. Might as well give it a try, I decide, so I untie the white string and pull off the silk.

"Oh," Tilda breathes in excitement. I can't even pay attention to how Bain's fingers automatically reach onto the plate, nor can I be bothered to raise my eyebrows at Da, who has chosen this moment to whistle like he's back on the barge.

"Well then," Da pronounces.

Well then, indeed. On the tray in the middle of our table are the most delectable things I've seen in my life. Little figures of flowers that we discover are edible, sweet biscuits covered in fresh jam, fruit that has been boiled down and added to until it sits in neat little squares of conserve, and little nuts that are encrusted in sugar that is all different colours, but all taste delightfully sweet. Anne has even put a small bowl of candied raisins on the tray, topped with little curls of something brown that I remember has a name starting with "ch", though for the life of me I can't think of the rest of it.

It is all so decadent, so indulgent and so pleasurable, that I can't believe it's on the table in Dale, of all places.

"How long's she staying?" Bain asks with a mouthful of sweets. I can see the sugar around his lips glistening in the candlelight. There is a life to our table that I have not felt in years.

"As long as she wants," I decide. If I were a witch, I'd cackle with glee. But I'm a princess now, so I rub my hands together instead and give a whoop of joy before diving into the tray again.

* * *

Anne wins us all over, one by one. She gives Bain free reign in her little kitchen, and she becomes the only friend I have in Dale. How that happened, I'm still not completely sure, as one minute she was curtsying again and the next I was stirring a huge pot of bubbling fruit, quite clumsily as we were both doubled over with laughter.

I tell her about Fili. Or rather, I tell her that there's a blonde haired man (I have decided to refer to him as a man, because he is almost as tall as me) from another city who has caught my interest. She says nothing, but I notice that when I turn to go, she's made up a little bag of dried rose petals.

"Here," she says with a sly smile. I can easily hear the slight accent in her voice, now that we have talked more than once. "Hang it on the belt of your dress the next time you think you might see him."

I bow my head and feel my blush. That is how she won me over.

Tilda is another story. Like me, she has found that the friends that she had in Laketown are suddenly too busy to sit with her, now that she is technically royalty. But it is worse for my little sister; they ignore her, rather than politely decline her invitations, like they do for me. They are mean to her; cruel, even.

I walk down to the market one day, and pause. Anne and Tilda are in front of me. Anne's hands are linked behind her back, and she is leaning down, listening intently to whatever Tilda is saying. They have stopped in front of a stall displaying new toys from Erebor.

Suddenly, a group of girls advance and jump in the puddle next to my sister, left over from the summer rain the night before. My sister's skirt is drenched. Anne is wet from her chest to the hem of her dress.

But they do not stop there. They crowd around Tilda, having wormed past Anne until they are surrounding the girl that slept with me until only last year. I cannot hear what they are saying to her, but it is enough to make her cheeks redden and angry tears pool in her eyes. I feel steam rushing through my body until I swear that it might come out of my ears, and I ball my fists and begin to storm towards them.

Anne gets there first. She doesn't care that the girls are fifteen years younger than her, she just elbows through them, sending half of them flying until they're thumped in the puddle. She turns to the ringleader, an annoyingly beautiful red haired girl with freckles and green, catty eyes, whose backside is presently sitting in the dirty brown puddle, and she kneels down in front of her, not caring for a second that she is kneeling in the water.

She says something, and drives her point home by poking the girl's chest with one long finger – I want to clap when I see how she leaves it there for a moment longer than might be normal, as if she might just claw into the girl then and there. I can't hear what Anne says, but I see the dwarf behind the stall smirk, and Tilda beams. Anne's black eyes are flaming with anger and the girl wisely jumps up, turns on her heel and runs, soon followed by the rest of the group.

Anne stands and looks around her. Everyone is quiet and eyeing Tilda with sympathy. Tilda _hates_ sympathy. Then Anne spots me. She grabs Tilda's hand and marches purposefully back up the hill, takes my hand, too, and then we are all striding to the royal house under a red haze of fury.

Later, she warms a heavily watered wine and spices it with cinnamon. We girls, we three, sit in front of the fire in the main hall until the moon is shining brightly in the night sky.

Anne leaves with a kiss to Tilda's hair.

"What did she say to them?" I ask my sister, when Anne has disappeared through the door to the servant's side of the hall.

Tilda grins widely. I wait while she finishes chewing on a piece of honey cake, and wonder what _I_ would have said. 'I'll box your ears'? No. 'I'll tell your parents'. Definitely not. 'I'll whack your backsides'? Possibly.

"She said," Tilda cleared her throat, and I can see by the way her eyes are shining that she is half in love with Anne already, "that if they spoke to me again, she'd scratch their eyes out."

Oh. Well, then. I feel a giggle rising, and then we're both laughing, holding onto each other, in awe of this woman who defends us like she is a lioness and we are her cubs. Except, she does not treat us like cubs. No, we are lionesses too.

And that is how Tilda is not just won over, but bowled over, until she loves Anne so fiercely that they are as thick as thieves.

Da is another story.

* * *

Some months later, Da and I are sitting in the hall again, with papers around us. We are going over the stocks, getting ready for winter. We want to be sure that this will be the easiest yet – that more animals will survive. More shelters have been built, and thanks to the good harvest from last year, we have had more than enough funds to hire some more bodies to watch over the livestock.

We are engrossed in the task, but Da is soon staring off into the distance. I don't ask him why – I've learnt to recognize the signs, over the years. Signs that he is thinking of Mum. I don't even try to put a comforting hand on his arm anymore, for he is so lost in his memories that he wouldn't even notice.

But then something changes.

I can hear a familiar sound that makes me grin despite the boring task at hand. All of the males in the hall stop whatever they were doing (whatever do they do, anyway? They just seem to stand around, waiting for this very moment) and a hush descends over us all. Da is confused. He leans towards me and says: "Did I just hear a cat in here?"

Da has still not noticed Anne. In all of these months, she's walked past him a dozen times but he's either had his head in a stack of papers, or is doing something or other that means he has somehow missed that a beautiful woman has been eyeing him off. I've seen her do it myself, even though she would deny it to her last breath – with the way she watches him sometimes, I think that she's categorized and filed him, the way I might do for a new cow. Though frankly the way I assess a cow, and the way she assesses Da, is probably a bit different.

Tilda comes out first. She runs, flat out, through the door that leads to the servant's quarters and Anne's little kitchen. Her boots pound on the wooden floor and she skids with a squeak as she makes a sharp turn, hoping to evade her pursuer. Da watches with interest for once, when he sees that Tilda is holding a little figure of sugar high in the air.

Then we hear it again. A low growl sounds from behind the door, and Tilda squeals. Anne bursts out through the door, her eyes narrowed and her long fingers curled like claws, and stalks towards her prey with the theatrics that Tilda adores. Da drops the paper that he's holding and his eyes go wide, the pupils moving from side to side in a movement that matches the rhythm of the sway of her hips.

She has no idea that she does it, but she hisses and at the same time, her long hair swishes from side to side. It doesn't help that half has escaped a loose braid. She prowls over to Tilda, who is cornered between some tables, and bends her body until she truly looks like a cat, stalking towards a mouse. Tilda gives a hoot of laughter, then manages to scoot under Anne's legs and she is off again, running back through the hall to the servant's door.

Anne throws her head back and laughs, then claps her hands together. This is enough to make Da make a strange sound in his throat. I'm not surprised – I've heard it more than a handful of times from various males in here. One of them once said that Anne could prowl her way into his bed and he wouldn't kick her out; I pretended not to hear, but hear I did. I'll have to remind myself to tell her to tone it down when she picks up her skirts, giving us all a view of bare ankles, and runs right after Tilda, both of them breathless.

When the door slams shut and the sound of their laughter has died down, I turn to Da. He's still watching the place where she last was.

"Who…?" he manages to say.

"Anne," I supply cheerfully. "Our confectioner."

" _That_ is the confectioner?"

"Aye." I smirk and say nothing, forcing him to ask all of the questions.

"How long…?"

"Oh, about six months now," I reply. I'm used to Da's half sentences.

" _Six months?"_ He is incredulous, for once. Finally, he feels the same way that I do, when I wonder how he has not noticed her before.

"Why haven't you…?"

"Why haven't I told you?" I say, feeling helpful, and he nods, still watching the servant's door.

I could say a multitude of things here. I could say: 'she has been making moon eyes at you and you haven't batted an eyelid, so she gave up'. Or I could say: 'you're Da and it's simply strange to suggest a female companion for you.'

But I don't say any of those things. I don't say anything. I just shrug and grin.

The real reason that I haven't mentioned Anne to Da is that Da needs to do something by himself for a change. And also, I am hesitant to tell him the extent of our relationship. For instance, I don't particularly wish to tell him that a fortnight ago, Anne and I managed to sneak into the stables armed with two bottles of wine. When we were tippled enough, I asked her to show me how she shifts on her feet so that her hip juts out. She stared at me with her mouth hanging open, until we both shrieked with laughter, then took turns in swiveling our hips around, until I'd gotten the movement just right.

I haven't mentioned Anne to Da, because last week I went to Erebor and when I said goodbye to Fili, I had a bag of rose petals hanging from my belt that made me smell like the garden in spring. I haven't mentioned her, because after that I shifted on my feet and swayed my hip ever so slightly, and Fili's eyes followed my action and they darkened so much that when he looked back at me again, they were black instead of blue and I was feeling that same, strange tingling in my belly that started all of this in the first place.

.

.

.

* * *

And here we have Anne. At this point, reading Kings and Sweetmeats will have been beneficial, in terms of why she has a whole chapter in this story.

Borys - yep! Haha.

Casema - It's a guilty pleasure, to write this, that's for sure.

Eryndil - I can't either. Plus there's a good ten years or so between her and Anne, so definitely a bit of a difference in terms of how much importance one might place on ogling depending on age ;)

Hannew - I'm going to give explaining that a go in this little story. I've thought about it a lot, and I've come to the conclusion that I definitely think it is possible, but I'll expand on my reasons a bit later.


End file.
